


Missus

by Kittywitch



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Drinking, F/M, why is the sober one the one with the daft ideas?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittywitch/pseuds/Kittywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve got it! ...a plan which would result in Susan regularly pronouncing my surname correctly.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missus

            The pair had been quietly enjoying a drink, which perhaps was the first poorly thought out idea without which the second would not have occurred. A combination of alcohol and it being quiet too long had spurred on the assassin’s usual way of thinking to consider a problem which he was yet to have worked out. His initial response, to kill the source of his irritation, wouldn’t work in this case as he had grown quite fond of her, and his last attempt was completely unsuccessful. The problem was one of finding a way to deal with her one unfortunate habit[1] in such a way that allowed him to enjoy the full experience of her company as much as possible.

            “I’ve got it!” Jonathan exclaimed suddenly. The detective he had been sharing a drink with looked up.

            “Got what?” he asked. “An incurable mental illness?”

            “Very probably, but more recently, a plan which would result in Susan regularly pronouncing my surname correctly.”

            “I’m going to need a refill for this one.” he replied, pouring himself what was either his third whiskey or his second schnapps, and hopefully he would figure it out once he started drinking it. Armed with what hopefully would make the rest of the world strange enough to make whatever Teatime was about to say sound normal, he nodded for the assassin to explain.

            “Miss Susan has made a habit of intentionally mispronouncing my surname in order to annoy me.” Jonathan explained. “Especially since my… situation changed.”

“To be fair, ya’d be just as annoyed if someone ya killed wouldn’t stay dead.”

            “Not at all. It would present an interesting new challenge, but I wouldn’t resort to petty twitting. Particularly to someone who has been as nice about the whole ‘remember when you stabbed me in the chest with a poker’ business as I have been.” Teatime wrinkled his nose as he spoke, clearly more bothered about that than he was letting on. “Now do you want to hear my idea or don’t you?”

            “Ya don’t wanna know the answer to that. Ya just wanna tell me yer idea.”

            “It comes down to this: Susan frequently mispronounces ‘Téatimé’ when she’s speaking to me. But I very much doubt that urge to irritate me would extend to mispronouncing her own name.”

            “What, like…” he took a sip of his drink as he considered Susan’s name and deliberately avoided what Jonathan was actually getting at. “Like it was one word? Stohelit? Stohe Lit? Slough light?”

“You know very well that’s not what I meant. That would hardly effect the pronunciation of ‘Téatimé’ in any case. What I am saying is that if Susan was compelled to share my surname, she would be pronouncing it perfectly within seconds.”

“It would take a lot of compelling.”

“An unlikely scenario, I grant you.” Teatime admitted, “But I do pride myself on abstract thinking.”

            “It would be too much to hope ya were thinkin’ of adoptin’ her, wouldn’t it?”

            “We _are_ both orphans, but that wasn’t the route I was exploring.” Teatime mused, swirling his drink in his cup. “I think you know perfectly well what I mean. I’m very fond of Susan, and it isn’t as if I particularly enjoy being a bachelor.”

            “Please stop.” his companion groaned, covering his eyes. “Stop before ya actually say it…”

            “There’s no reason I _wouldn’t_ want to marry Susan.” Jonathan argued. Given their previous relationship, this wasn’t strictly true, but it was hardly the most unusual part of a previously dead man sitting in pub, weighing murder against matrimony and drinking chocolate milk.

            “Kid, ya can’t be serious.”

            “Why not? I’m old enough to consider this sort of thing. At my age it’s practically _expected_.” he added in a sulky tone that made him sound far too young to marry.

            “Ya know what ya sound like right now? What yer sayin’ is, ya got a plan to marry somebody who killed ya sos that she starts pronouncing yer name correctly!”

            “Well, anything sounds utterly mad when you say it. I think it’s your accent.”

 

            “Okay, let’s look into this hypothetical land in which ya have chosen to live. Ya propose to Susan, an’ she doesn’t respond with a second poker. Weddin’ bells ring an’ the ladies of Anhk-Morpork breathe a collective sigh of relief for the most ineligible bachelor bein’ taken off the market.” his drinking partner argued, “Maybe, an’ I do mean _maybe,_ he new Mrs. Téatimé starts correctly pronouncin’ _her_ name, sure, but if that happened she’d be goin’ into dinner parties introducing ya like ‘Hello, my name is Mrs. Téatimé and this is Mr. Teatime.’ if for no other reason than to hide her poor choice in spouses.”

            “That isn’t very nice. I think I’d make a wonderful husband.”

            “Maybe ya would, but not hers. Face it, you two would kill each other.”

            “We already have done, that’s the beauty of it.”

            Rather than respond, he poured out another drink, and a second one for the assassin.

            “Look, I don’t mind ya havin’ yer dreams. We’ve all got ‘em. Even the really weird ones where yer havin’ biscuits with a schnauzer an’ yer socks start turnin’ into custard. Just so long as this stays in the hypothetical. I don’t wanna meet back here next week wit’ yer teeth knocked out an’ pattin’ down your pockets lookin’ for a receipt from a jeweller’s.” he muttered into what had turned out to be neither whiskey nor schnapps, “Or worse, the shock unhinges her an’ she actually says yes. If ya two bred, yer kids would probably end up killin’ a coupla gods.”

Jonathan smiled broadly.

            “Thank you!” he chirped. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night!”

 

[1] Which was _not_ her attempts to inhume him, indeed he found being able to engage someone on his own level one of her more charming qualities.

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is pure crack, I reasoned that I might as well have Téatimé having this conversation with Frobisher from Doctor Who comics. The entire reason stems from RP blogs, where in an unlikely series of events these two have met and become friends. However, this is never directly stated in the story, there is really nothing saying that Téatimé is actually having this conversation with a shapeshifting penguin.
> 
> I've come to indicate the pronunciation of Téatimé's name with accent marks, which is not accurate to the book but I find it less disrupting to read.


End file.
